


Withdrawn

by AlviePines



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: Drug Use, Drug Withdrawal, Elixir - Freeform, Mint Eye, saeyoung tries too hard but looks in the wrong places, secret keeping, tense relationships, will probably become hurt/comfort but rn its just hurt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-29 08:58:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20794046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlviePines/pseuds/AlviePines
Summary: With the twins' relationship still walking on glass shards, Saeran tries to hide his withdrawal symptoms. His secrets catch up to him regardless.





	Withdrawn

It’s dark. It’s dark and heavy and everything is swirling around Saeran, distorting and weaving its way into his pounding head. The pressure is oppressive, unbearable. He moves, rolls over, pushes the suffocating blankets away. There’s light creeping through the crack under the door; he focuses on it. 

It’s time for his dose.

Saeran sits up groggily, waiting for the world to stop spinning. It’s okay, it will stop soon, he reassures himself. As soon as he gets his dose. 

His eyes finally focus and more lights come into view, little green stars glowing softly above him. They’re confusing for a moment, before he remembers who they belong to- who’s house he’s in- this isn’t Magenta. 

Saeran shivers. His dose isn’t coming. He looks to the light below the door, then to his crumpled bedsheets- Saeyoung’s bedsheets, really, but Saeyoung only sleeps at his desk, just like Saeran used to. His forehead is damp even while he shivers, and the blankets are starting to look appealing again. His head feels like it might break in half now, so he leans forward and buries it in the soft fabric. He groans softly into the blanket; this would normally be the time he woke up to drink more elixir, if he’d gone to sleep at all. 

Saeran closes his eyes and listens to the empty bunker for a bit, waiting for his symptoms to quiet. It’s not long before he can hear the distant click-click-clack of his twin’s keyboard echoing through the silence. It’s just as rapid and relentless as ever, an endless job of keeping himself safe, keeping the bunker secure, and of course, keeping Saeran inside. 

Saeran swallows past a dry throat and decides that he needs a drink. Anything to mimic that vibrant blue liquid, anything to distract him. 

He opens the door, ignores the faint creaking, and slips down the dim hallway. His socks don’t make much noise against the hardwood, but the clicking from the main room stops for a moment, as if listening, before resuming with just as much force. Saeran has been labeled “unimportant,” he thinks. 

No, he pushes that thought from his head and continues. The kitchen is nice, although nearly never used, which perhaps contributes to its shining brand-new-ness. Saeran is just bringing the glass to his lips when the tremors start. 

A sharp crash splinters the silence. The clicking really does stop now, and footsteps can be heard down the hall, and Saeran just stands there with shaking fingers and startled eyes. Saeyoung throws open the door and flips on the lights, eyes wild and hand at his side. Saeran numbly wonders if he keeps a weapon there. The lights are blinding him and he shrinks away while he waits for his eyes to adjust. 

A sharp pain pierces his heel and he knows he’s stepped on glass, but he just steadies himself on the counter- one trembling arm supporting a trembling body- and looks at his brother. 

Saeyoung’s hand is no longer reaching for a weapon. He surveys the damage quickly and steps, lightfooted as ever, through the glass shards. 

“Saeran,” he says quietly, “come over here.” He pats the counter, so Saeran pulls himself up. “What happened?” he asks. 

“Dropped a cup,” Saeran mumbles. 

Saeyoung nods. “I’ll clean it up,” he promises. 

“I’m not a baby,” Saeran whispers. His brother turns around anyways, and starts to pick up the biggest shards. They’re gone within minutes, and Saeyoung is about to stand up again and leave when something catches his eye. “Saeran, you’re hurt.” 

Saeran raises his bleeding heel. It looks worse than it feels. He’ll be fine. 

But Saeyoung is gone and back again too quickly, with a roll of gauze and a bottle of something medical. Saeran shudders again. The tremors have stopped, but his headache is back and now worse than ever. It’s accompanied this time by a sick feeling in his stomach, a touch of nausea that he knows from experience will get worse very fast. 

His heel is being cleaned up already. Saeyoung has produced a pair of tweezers and pulled out the glass while Saeran was distracted. He now holds a wet washcloth. Saeran extends his foot obligingly and allows his brother to wash the blood away. Underneath, the cut is so small he can’t see it, but he allows Saeyoung to wrap it in gauze anyways. He’s missed out on nearly a lifetime of moments like these, being taken care of by his other half. 

“Are you going to work again?” Saeran asks. He speaks quietly, in that solemn whisper that is reserved for a too-bright kitchen at two in the morning, a whisper designed to skirt between a fragile relationship and delicate silence. 

A moment passes. “You’re shaking.” 

Saeran quietly curses himself and wills his body to be still. Infuriatingly, it only causes him to shake harder, like a leaf blown in the wind. 

A gentle hand finds his, tired fingers wrapping around his wrist. Saeyoung is peering up through his glasses with that hopelessly concerned expression, and it makes Saeran’s stomach twist. He feels much worse now. 

“Are you okay? Let me see…” Saeyoung stands up and places his palm flat over Saeran’s forehead. Saeran flinches away and dips back out of reach. “I’m fine,” he says flatly. “Just tired.” 

“You’re feverish,” Saeyoung insists. “You might be sick.” 

“Yeah, maybe.” Better that he thinks this way. 

Without another word, Saeyoung picks him up and carries him, bridal style, back to bed. Saeran doesn’t have a reason to fight back anymore, so he closes his eyes and lets himself be cared for. 

Soon, he’s being lowered into the bed, with those faint green stars above his head again. He rolls into the blanket without opening his eyes. It’s warm, warm, so warm. Too warm. His fever is getting worse. 

Saeyoung hasn’t left yet. He’s sitting on the bed now. “Tell me what’s wrong,” he says softly. 

No. 

A pleading look. 

“Saeyoung…” he mumbles. “Fine.” He rolls over and sits up, looking at Saeyoung square in the eyes. “I’m a little nauseous and I think I have a fever. That’s it. I’ll probably be fine by tomorrow afternoon.” 

Saeyoung’s eyes search his. They almost seem to be having a standoff, a tiny unspoken battle between liars. But Saeran has changed more than either boy can account for, and Saeyoung can’t recognize a lie in him anymore. It ends quickly. Saeyoung looks away and moves to the door. He stops there for a moment, looks back. 

“Saeran…” he starts, then seems to change his mind. “I’m right down the hall if you need me, okay?” 

Saeran nods and curls back into the blankets. The door closes, shrouding him in blue-black shadows once again. The clicking resumes. Saeran’s hands are shaking where they grip the blankets. Washed in the gentle light of a hundred fake stars, he begins to cry.


End file.
